Penzantics

Bless me, readers, for I have sinned: it has been four days since my last blog entry. But rest assured, I have not been idle, packing more fun and frolics into the last 72 hours than is probably healthy.

I headed down to Cornwall after work on Friday's 6pm train and arrived just after 11. This would normally be WPMB (way past my bedtime) but Katherine's enthusiasm and giggly effervescence won me round and before I knew it, we were sitting in an extremely dodgy pub called The Longboat, trying not to stare too obviously at the fascinating clientele. Adding to the sensation of having travelled to a far-flung corner of the globe, the wine was served in miniature bottles, as if we were on a plane. After a couple of them, we became more vocal with the locals. Katherine in particular was enamoured by this gentleman's T-shirt (in his defence, the sweat patches weren't nearly so visible in the dim pub lighting):


On Saturday we went for a run. OK, stop laughing, it's true. I jogged. I've done it on the treadmill but never outside, and actually, it wasn't as bad as I thought. We went for about 25 mins around the town and along the sea front, with a few stops in the latter segments. I was pleasantly surprised and certainly would attempt it again in future. Katherine was doing some very clever deep breathing that she was taught by a personal trainer in New York. It made her sound like a bizarre cross between a steam train and a hyperventilating Alsatian but it added to her aura of professionalism. I might try and adopt this technique in future.

After our exercise, we hit the charity shops of Penzance High Street and, against my better judgment, went to see Beowulf at the cinema. No comment. In the evening we went for a delicious Chinese meal and then to the hangout frequented by all of Penzance's coolest cats, Studio Bar. During the evening we were 'entertained' by 'Mr T.', a fantastically cliched long-haired rocker who covered Fire and Rain by James Taylor, but ad libbed in the most predictable fashion, singing about 'shattered fucking pieces on the ground'. Agonising.

In Studio Bar, we were once more drenched in local colour, hanging out with Colin, the quiet Mr Firth lookalike; Andy, the 40-year-old Cassanova with a bad mullet and, I fear, a bachelor's future; the girl with the unacceptably low-cut top who turned out to be 45 and have an 18 year old daughter; her brother, Dean, who was wearing a Hard Rock Cafe, Malta T-shirt and also had far too much hair. We didn't meet Carl, a surprisingly handsome gentleman who was so drunk he was finding it difficult to stand. Our new friends confirmed that he is in a bit of a dark place at the moment. By the end of the evening I felt so sorry for him that I wrote him a note on a bit of brown paper bag, saying, 'Carl: you are far too drunk. You are one of the best looking guys in this bar and you should have more self-respect. Sort your life out. Kind regards, Jane.' I then put it in his jacket pocket on my way out. The Penzance locals are going to keep tabs on him now - I have high hopes that he will be spotted in a business suit with a beautiful laydee on his arm before too long but I fear it's unlikely.

On Sunday we loafed, shopped in a hungover state and walked over the causeway to St Michael's Mount with a lovely young man called Craig. I took lots of photos and it was all very British as the intermittent rain pattered against my borrowed anorak. After an evening of soup, bagels and 21 Grams, I returned on the commuter train yesterday morning and I now feel both refreshed and knackered. The flat saga continues with mortgage issues but I have high hopes that I will make it through with all my limbs intact, which is the main thing.